


One Summer

by E350tb



Category: Steven Universe (Cartoon)
Genre: A less than positive protrayal of former President Reagan, Airplane Crashes, Alternate Universe - 1980s, Cold War, Gen, Nuclear Warfare, Politics, Present Tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-06 03:59:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 15,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17338181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/E350tb/pseuds/E350tb
Summary: Rose has a baby on the way, and her life couldn't be better. It's a beautiful summer in a beautiful town. And a world a way, a border guard has been shot.It is 1984 - the height of the Cold War.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So this is very experimental (and yes, I've started another WIP - sorry everyone.) I hope you like it, it's something different at any rate.

**Prologue**

Beach City, Delmarva. A quiet beach town at the heart of summer.

He offers her his hand, leads her onto the beach. His eyes fall on the baby bump, and he can't help but smile. They're coming - he fears it, but he can't wait. Is that wrong? In any case, he feels the sun shine from an endless blue sky and he just can't help but feel glad to be alive.

She dances, with no plan, no choreography, not even music - just the symphony of the waves and the gulls, the orchestra of this planet she has fought so hard for, sacrificed so much for, come to love as her own. She feels the sand between her toes, and lets out a laugh - everything is perfect.

_There is a series of pops._

Beach City is so beautiful and so alive this time of year, and she thinks of the variety of the lives being lived there. Little Sadie Miller starts school soon, doesn't she? The Frymans are expecting another baby. Harold Smiley’s sent his tape to another record label - maybe this time he'll be lucky! Vidalia’s dating that nice fisherman, and they go do well together…

_Cries ring out. A man in a grey uniform lies face down in the street, not one hundred yards from a big white sign. He does not move._

It's just another beautiful summer’s day on the planet Earth, and there's no other place Rose Quartz would rather be.

_A woman films on a bulky camera. Zoom out, away from the dead guard, focus on the sign - ‘CHECKPOINT CHARLIE.’_

Beach City exists within a bubble - a safe little world where none of the myriad of bad news from outside penetrates. It is the ideal for which Rose fought so many thousands of years ago, and to her it is unassailable. It is a world of tranquility that she intends to leave to her son.

It is the summer of 1984.


	2. Hello, Goodbye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a normal story in the 1980s.
> 
> Special thanks to [realfakedoors](https://archiveofourown.org/users/realfakedoors/pseuds/realfakedoors) for proofreading this. Read her stuff!

**Hello, Goodbye  
**

It’s a hell of a time for a new assignment.

Doug and Priyanka have a baby on the way - they’ll be here in a matter of months. Priyanka had a steady job at the hospital. Their mortgage was firmed up with the bank. Neighbors were friendly, respectful. It had all seemed so _permanent_.

With an almost painful amount of irony, Doug recalls spending around five painstaking hours building a crib before going downstairs to check the mail and receiving the letter, detailing their move. (Or specifically, _his_ move - they hadn’t bothered to budget his family in.)

London, to guard some State Department thing. _London_ **.** Don't they have jarheads do that?

Well, given what they’re saying on the news, maybe not.

“ _...reports indicate that Soviet tank units have crossed the Polish border into East Germany to reinforce East Berlin. President Honecker has demanded monetary compensation from the West German government in Bonn, and a complete apology from NATO command for the death of the border guard…_ ”

Priyanka pulls up in front of the departures gate, switching the doom and gloom of the radio off. Immediately, Doug reaches for the handle - he hesitates.

“You sure there’s no way I can tell them I died or something?”

Priyanka laughs.

“Or we could just escape - go live on a desert island, just the three of us…”

“It’s only three months, Doug,” Priyanka reassures, “You’ve given your notice.”

“Well, hopefully Maheswaran Number Three can hold on until I get back,” Doug pats his wife’s baby bump, “I mean, they’ve always been jumpy…”

“She gets it from her father,” replied Priyanka.

“She?”

“Mother’s intuition.”

They laugh. Then, slowly, they pull into a kiss, long and bittersweet.

“Well, London’s calling,” sighs Doug.

“You’ll like it,” Priyanka shrugs, “I went there while I was in college. It’s pretty.”

“Eh, I’ll take your word for it,” says Doug, “You two keep out of trouble, I’ll see you in a few months.”

Another kiss of goodbye, and then he is gone, bound for his gate, bound for Great Britain. Priyanka turns the radio back on.

“ _...let NATO be warned; if there is no apology for this act of sheer banditry on the border, we will have no choice but to blockade West Berlin from all military supplies…_ ”

She changes the channel.

* * *

Ronaldo’s dad voted for Reagan.

Oh, don’t get him wrong, he’s no fan of the Gipper, but he just wasn’t that enthusiastic about Carter either. And when it got right down to it, he didn’t care about Iranian Embassies or Three Mile Island or anything like that - his main motivation was that he could really use a tax cut. He very rarely gets seriously political - although there was one time he got into a shouting match with a guy with a faded ‘George Wallace ‘68’ bumper sticker at the gas station, because _Jesus Christ, George Wallace?!_

But yes, he _did_ vote for Reagan. Mr. Pizza is very vocally reminding him of the fact, right that very moment.

Ronaldo isn’t very interested in this deep political argument. He’s too busy playing with a little plastic UFO. Five-year olds, generally speaking, don’t think too much about the two-party system.

“...all he has to do is _apologize!_ ”

“What the hell for, Kofi?! We’re not at fault-”

“I don’t care! He’s risking a world war!”

Ronaldo knows vaguely what that is. Grandpa Fryman had been in a world war, although he’s dead now. The doctors said something about ‘complications from a wound sustained on Okinawa.’ Ronaldo doesn’t know what that is, and Grandpa never talked about it. He imagines a tropical island - maybe there were dinosaurs on it, and he was fighting them?

Oh well, it’s nothing for him to worry about.

He presses a little button on the underside of the UFO. It lights up, makes a sound.

_Vroosh!_

_Fighter jets land in bases all over Poland and East Germany - it’s just a precautionary measure, mind, in case the Americans try anything._

_Vroosh!_

Ronaldo smiles, gently lowering the UFO onto the ground. He grabs a little plastic figure that came with the ship - a tiny little man in black - and mimes him walking up to the ship.

_The men in black flank him, cameras flashing, as he speaks to the press gallery._

_“...I give Mr. Chernenko a choice. If you believe in world peace, if you believe in the rights of nations to exist, then end this sabre-rattling. But if you wish to test the solidarity of the United States and her international allies, then I tell you this; we are not going to blink first…”_

“What’re you doing?”

Ronaldo looks up.

His mother looks down, over the baby bump. She doesn’t look pleased.

“I’m just…”

“Yeah, well, keep it down,” his mother grunts, “Your father’s being loud enough without your yammering.”

“But I’m just-”

“Do it somewhere else.”

She turns and walks away.

Deflated, Ronaldo picks up his UFO and heads outside. He plants himself on the boardwalk, ready to play again - but the enthusiasm just isn’t coming. _Stupid mom. Ruining everything._

At least with the baby she can’t-

“Hey.”

Ronaldo looks up. There’s a kid next to him, clad in sunglasses - he’s pointing to the UFO.

“Can I play?” he asks, his voice completely calm.

“...sure.” Ronaldo nervously hands it over - he’s not going to stomp it like those older kids, is he? He’s lost a few to that (and mentally, he has a moment of silence for his first UFO, cruelly crushed by Kevin’s shoe.)

The kid presses the button again - _vroom! Pew pew pew pew!_

He smiles softly.

“Cool,” he says, “I’m Buck.”

“I’m-I’m Ronaldo.”

Buck sits next to him.

“Hi Ronaldo.”

He presses the button again.

_Vroom! Vroom!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should use songs from the 1980s as song titles!
> 
> _(first song is from 1967.)_
> 
> Oh well.


	3. Changes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things seem to be fairly normal.
> 
> Special thanks to [realfakedoors](https://archiveofourown.org/users/realfakedoors/pseuds/realfakedoors) for proofreading this. Read her stuff!

**Changes**

It’s 4am and there’s a knock at the door. That is, in almost zero contexts, _ever_ a good sign.

Bill Dewey staggers to the door and opens it. There’s a man there, clad in olive grey, a small pile of envelopes under his arm.

“Mr. Dewey?”

“ _Guuuh?_ ”

“...yeah, I’m from the National Guard,” says the man, “I’ve got call-up notices, can you make sure they get up?”

“Call-up?” It’s way too early for this.

“Delmarva National Guard’s being mobilised,” explains the man, “ _Operation Reforger_ is going into effect.”

“...Operation what now?”

The man shakes his head.

“Just send out the letters,” he orders, “And turn on a TV - it’ll all be clear.”

He shuts the door. Weary and caffeine deprived, Dewey stumbles to the TV, grabbing the remote and turning it on. He clicks on CBS - is that Dan Rather? What the hell’s he doing up this early?

“ _...for those of you just tuning in, here’s the latest from Europe. Soviet and East German forces have officially sealed all highways and railways leading from West Berlin to the rest of West Germany. The White House has just declared a state of emergency…_ ’

Oh.

...shit.

* * *

Amethyst is _booooooored_.

There’s nothing on TV today - just daytime soaps and talk shows and worried-looking anchors. It’s hard to decide which is more of a drag. She wishes Vidalia would come home, or Greg would stop making googly eyes with Rose and come watch some Lil’ Butler episodes or something. She sits in the back of the van and sighs.

 _Click_.

_“...now, what’s happening in Europe isn’t necessarily the start of World War Three, and I don’t think it will be…”_

_Click_.

 _“...although we can’t tell you much about it, Operation Reforger is NATO’s plan to quickly reinforce Europe in the event of…_ ”

 _Click_.

_“...growing number of protestors outside the Soviet Embassy…”_

_Click_.

Days of Our Lives?! Oh god, change the channel, _change the channel-_

 _Click_.

 _“...war panic has led to instability on the trading floor on Wall Street…_ ”

The door opens. Greg climbs in - he offers Amethyst a grin.

“What’s up, Amethyst?”

“Nothing,” sighs Amethyst, “TV’s dead, yo’.”

“Yeah, they’re all talking about West Berlin,” Greg nods, frowning, “It’s enough to make you lose your hair!”

“You mean more than usual?”

“Very funny, Amethyst.” Despite the tone, Greg gives her a good-natured smile.

“Eh, nothin’s gonna happen, G,” Amethyst shrugs, “It didn’t happen over that thing in Cuba way back when, whatever that was about. It won’t happen now.”

“I sure hope so,” Greg nods, “Hey, you know where the camera is? Rose and I were gonna film a video…”

* * *

Doug has travelled from London to his home for the next few months by British Rail, and it is, with no sense of hyperbole, an experience literally comparable to death.

The train is dank and dirty and overwhelming unfriendly, the dull blue and grey livery peeled and weathered. The new slogan for the railways is plastered on shelters and posters and spare walls - _We’re getting there._ Doug can’t help but feel it’s characteristically gloomy. _We’re terrible, but maybe one day we’ll be less terrible._

He’s being stabled with a family in a small town in Oxfordshire, because the company’s too cheap to give him a city apartment. It’s a nice place, he’s told. Quaint and cosy.

It’s also less than a mile away from an airbase, from which the so-called ‘V-Bombers’ are flown.

Doug doesn’t know much about these planes, and frankly he doesn’t really care, but his new custodian - a middle-aged man in a flat cap and sweater - won’t stop chatting about them as he drives his little three-wheeled car from the station to the house. It bumps and rolls over potholes, and Doug wonders how it stays upright.

“...so they’re making all these noises about ‘martial law’ and ‘emergency powers acts’,” the man, Mr. Cunningham, is saying, “It’s all bollocks. All this ‘doom and gloom’, ‘end of the world’ - god, did you _see_ that Yank film they did last year? _The Day After._ Load of blimmin’ tripe.”

He turns a corner into a modern looking housing estate. Doug can’t help but wonder why it’s here - it’s a ways away from the train station…

“If it does happen, it’ll be like the last one, I reckon,” Mr. Cunningham continues, “They blitz us, we’ll sit it out, and then we’ll push straight to Berlin like what Monty did. ‘Spose this time it’ll be Moscow, though… and I guess Monty’s dead… but still, easily survivable, you mark my words.”

They pull into a driveway, and suddenly Doug’s senses are overwhelmed by a shrill screaming. He looks up, aghast.

A plane, green and grey, with enormous swept back wings soars overhead. Mr. Cunningham chuckles as it rockets on, shaking the ground.

“Yep, that’s one o’ the Vulcans,” he says proudly, “British-designed, British-built! The V-Bomber base is, oh, a thousand yards that way.”

“A thousand… you’re not worried about being bombed?” Doug asks incredulously.

“What on Earth for? If it ‘appens, the Government will send us the booklets and we’ll build ourselves a shelter. I’m tellin’ you, Yank, we’ll be safe as ‘ouses!”

As they walk to the door, Doug can’t help back look back at the disappearing shape of the bomber - roaring, _screaming_ ever on into a dark grey sky.

* * *

“Isn't it remarkable, Steven? This world is full of so many possibilities…”

 _Fryman looks with shaking hands at the letter - call-up notice, report to unit immediately; the bolded word REFORGER and the threat of transportation to Europe. It can’t be that serious, he tells himself, it_ can’t _be that serious…_

“Each living thing has an entirely unique experience…”

_There is shouting and screaming, it’s exhilarating. Vidalia holds up the sign, one of hundreds - NO WAR. DISARM NOW. BAN THE BOMB. She hears a siren and suddenly everyone pushes against her, and then agony, sheer agony in her eyes as the tears well up…_

“The sights they see, the sounds they hear…”

_Their parents are talking about strange things they don’t understand, and they keep watching the news, but Buck, Jenny and Sour Cream don’t care tonight. They’ve made a new friend, and while Ronaldo might be strange, he’s a kid who needs a friend right now, and they’re happy to do so. Although they can’t help but wonder why his dad has started crying in the other room._

“The lives they live are so complicated, and so simple…”

 _Lars sits at home, lying on his bed. He doesn’t want to come out at the best of times - and these days, with everyone talking about upsetting things like crisis and wars, there’s even less incentive to go downstairs. And mom and dad don’t like that, but maybe mom and dad don’t understand. Maybe he_ likes _being sad._

“I can't wait for you to join them.”

 _Somewhere in the vast expanse of the Mojave Desert, the ground shakes as an atomic bomb is tested underground_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure everything is under control.


	4. Bad Moon Rising

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, my favourite song! Or one of them, anyway.
> 
> A very special thanks to [realfakedoors](https://archiveofourown.org/users/realfakedoors/pseuds/realfakedoors) for proofreading this. Read her stuff today!

**Bad Moon Rising  
**

For five days, the planes have come in. The images have been beamed across the world to an electrified public - big, grey, ungainly cargo planes laden with food for West Berlin (and guns, ammo and tanks, but the news doesn’t focus on that) land hour after hour at Tempelhof Airport, unloading their goods and flying back for more. They soar over East German airspace and _dare_ the Soviets to shoot them down.

The Soviets are prudent. They don’t want another KAL-007. Their fighters shadows the planes but they very pointedly don’t take the bait.

For now.

* * *

Ronaldo’s dad has been gone for several days  - he’s flown away to do something called Reforger, whatever that means. Something to do with the National Guard? In any case, Jamie’s noticed a change at Beach Citywalk Fries. There’s always been _something_ about Mrs. Fryman, although he can never tell what. Whatever it was, it’s more… intense now? Certainly, she’s more short-tempered.

The first thing on Jamie’s mind these days is middle school - he’s about to enter his last year, and then it’s on to high school. It’s a terrifying prospect for him. He’s happy and comfortable in middle school, in the drama club - what if the high school club won’t accept him?

He stands at the front of the queue. Mrs. Fryman stares back at him, a deep frown on her face.

“What do you want?” she demands.

“Uh… uh, fries, I guess. Large?”

She practically slams them down.

“Are… are you alright ma’am?”

“I got another kid on the way and I gotta raise it on my own,” replies Mrs. Fryman, “Do I _look_ fine?”

“But… but Mr. Fryman’s gonna come back, right?”

“If it all goes upside down, kid?” replies Mrs. Fryman, “Not damn likely.”

Jamie frowns.

“But it’s not gonna go that way, right?”

“Next, please.”

“I mean, this has happened before! Like, with Cuba and stuff, it’s not gonna-”

“ _Next, please._ ”

Jamie swallows and walks away.

Maybe drama club isn’t the biggest thing to worry about after all.

* * *

“ _...the Austrian government has offered Vienna as a potential site for a summit between American and Soviet leaders. In an official statement, the Austrian Chancellor stated, quote; ‘We hope Washington and Moscow can use this opportunity to scale back tensions before it is too late…_ ”

Garnet’s looking at a lot of futures right now, and it’s too hard to tell which are going to come to pass.

Some are bright.

Some are also bright, but in a very different way.

She tells Rose what she can discern from the Gordian knot of cause and effect. They sit in silence, the only sound being the radio.

“Is this like last time, Garnet?” asks Rose, “Like Cuba?”

Garnet nods.

“Well then I’ll just have to go talk to them,” Rose stands up, climbs out of the back of the van, “Maybe I can convince them to back down.”

“You should wait.” Garnet crosses her arms, “Right now, the human governments are stuck in a hawk-dove crisis. It’s likely they’ll back down.”

“And if they don’t?”

“Then they might accept your advice,” says Garnet, “To… _defuse_ the situation.”

Rose pouts. “Why can’t I just defuse the situation _now?_ ”

Garnet shrugs.

It’s just the Cold War, as far as she can tell, and right now the game is being played exactly as it should be. Everyone is playing a part in a gigantic geopolitical farce, carefully constructed and delicately balanced, a well-oiled machine of fear, threats and very little action.

If she’s honest, she doubts Rose would understand that.

* * *

After eight days of blockade, the Kremlin offers to commit to a summit - not in Vienna, but in Cairo, away from Europe and its vast armed camps.

Washington deliberately waits twenty-four hours, then tentatively accepts. A date is set - August First, two days from now.

A crisis has come, and now it seems it will end again.

In Moscow, the General Secretary complains of a sore chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> KAL-007 was a South Korean airliner that was shot down in 1983 by the Soviets, causing a major international incident.
> 
> Operation REFORGER was NATO's plan to quickly reinforce their armies in Germany, should WWIII appear likely. It was first put to paper in 1967 and was tested yearly, notably during the infamous Able Archer exercise of 1983 that nearly convinced the Soviets that NATO was about to nuke them.
> 
> Austria was neutral during the Cold War, and Vienna was infamous for being riddled with spies from both sides.


	5. The Final Countdown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> do do dooo do  
> dodo do do dooo
> 
> A very special thanks to [realfakedoors](https://archiveofourown.org/users/realfakedoors/pseuds/realfakedoors) for proofreading this. Read her stuff today!

**The Final Countdown**

**10** is the number of hours the Duty Officer has been on shift today. In fact he’s slept very little this week - he’s tired, and his nerves are frayed.

The Duty Officer lives in a closed-off world of a bunker on the Golan Heights. He is in charge of a battery of a dozen surface-to-air missiles. Normally, he’d share the job with three others - but one is sick, and the replacement officer has been delayed. It’s just him and one other man, a small crew, a radar station and twelve missiles.

He is tired. God almighty, he is tired. Thank god nothing ever happens around here…

* * *

 **9** is the platform at Paddington Station onto which Doug alights. Travelling into the City has proven a pain, but it’s doable. Sort of. He’s definitely quitting when he gets back to America, though.

He stands on the Tube, following a route he’s now memorised - Bakerloo Line, change at Oxford Circus, Central Line, alight at Bank, head to the office. He traverses a city of routine - nobody talks on the train. Doug tried saying hello to someone on his first day and the man looked like he’d just been stabbed.

The little office is a sort-of offshoot of the State Department; it handles visas and travel documents and looking after Americans in Britain - basically the things that overflow from the Embassy. It’s not bad work, but it’s boring - nobody even comes here; none of the work they do is face-to-face. Doug doubts anyone knows it even _exists_.

But it’s work, and it’s stable. And if nothing else, the world seems to be calming down.

* * *

 **8** is the number of the Maheswaran house in the suburbs of New Brunswick. It’s not a bad place. It’s not a bad place at all. Big enough for three, but currently only holding one.

Priyanka is on the phone - not with Doug, it would be much nicer if it was Doug. No, this is her mother.

“... _can’t believe he left you alone! He’s your husband, he’s the father of your son…_ ”

“Daughter.”

“ _..._ son _, Priyanka, you’re a new family, you need a boy. But god, he’s…_ useless! _And what if this war scare turns out real, huh?_ ”

“Mother.” She pointedly draws out the word, “This is Doug’s last job. He’s going to apply for a local job as soon as he gets home - and the money’s going to be great for Connie when-”

“ _Connie?_ Connie? _What kind of a name is that? I told you, you were going to name it…”_

Priyanka rolls her eyes.

* * *

 **7** is the time on the clock when the Duty Officer gets the call.

“He’s sick too? Then… then who’s taking over from… what do you mean, there’s nobody? Ugh, just… okay, the replacement’s nearly here? When does he arrive? _Midnight?_ ”

He swears, sighs and puts down the phone.

A fifteen-hour shift. _Fantastic._

* * *

 **6** is the time in hours it takes, roughly, to fly from Moscow to Cairo, and according to the radio, the Soviet representative is preparing to take off for an overnight flight. He wants to get there early, they say, get everything prepared.

Greg’s not really listening to any of this, though - he’s driving his van to Atlantic City to pick up a few replacement parts for the car wash. He’s pretty chill about everything - once again, it seems like the two big powers have stopped their little game and things are going back to normal.

He switches to a music channel. He won’t need to listen to the news again today.

* * *

 **5** is Jenny Pizza’s age, although she’ll tell you it’s 5 and a _half_.

Jenny likes hanging with her friends, Sour Cream and Buck (she’s the leader of their little group, _of course_ ), and she enjoyed meeting that Ronaldo kid. But since his dad left on his Europe vacation, Ronaldo’s mom doesn’t seem to want to let him out to play.

She tries to ask Dad and Gunga for help. Dad doesn’t seem to have any ideas, but Gunga does (Gunga _always_ does.) A library playdate, she says! She can pretend it’s educational and everything! And they can invite Ronaldo and Sadie and that strange Lars kid and she guesses they’ll have to invite Kiki, but that’s not _too_ bad…

But yeah, a kid meeting! Like what grownups have, but more fun! She just hopes Mrs. Fryman says yes…

* * *

 **4** is the number of Crystal Gems - Garnet, Amethyst, Pearl, and their leader Rose.

None of them seem to be in the same place much lately, Pearl notes with annoyance.

Garnet is the only stable presence in the Temple. Rose keeps engaging in strange romantic rituals with Greg, and Amethyst can’t be stopped from wandering into town and mingling with the humans, and even Pearl gets wanderlust sometimes. The battlefield is a favourite place to think.

Or perhaps brood.

Or perhaps cry.

Humans think they know war; Pearl thinks they’re fools. They can’t fathom a war on the scale of the ones _she_ fought. This Cold War they keep fretting about is a storm in a teacup.

Although when she thinks of the nukes…

No, she tells herself, they’d never use them.

She wanders over to the warp pad. Today feels like a good day for some… _thinking_.

* * *

 **3** is the number of hours late the diplomatic flight departs Moscow.

It isn’t the pilot’s fault - it’s those fool mechanics, who hadn’t noticed a major flaw in the navigation systems until the plane was literally sitting on the runway. That had delayed everything, and now the pressure is on him to make up for lost time. At least he seems to be on course now - just crossing into Jordan.

To make matters, the radio is on the fritz. The co-pilot struggles with it - as far as he can tell, it sends but doesn’t receive, and they need that fixed, _pronto_.

 _Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong_ , he thinks to himself.

* * *

 **2** is the number of hours overtime the Duty Officer has had to work. Thank god for coffee. Shitty, shitty barracks coffee, but coffee nonetheless.

Which is just as well, because something very strange is happening.

There’s a plane on radar - he can’t quite tell what it is, but it’s big and it’s heading his way. It’s large enough to be a bomber, but it doesn’t look like any he’s seen before - maybe it’s a prototype? If so, whose is it? And why is it flying over them? The radar blip says nothing, and the men outside with binoculars can hardly see it in the night sky. They’ve sent a description and he’s flipping through the air recognition manual…

Tu-95. Soviet bomber. It _seems_ right…

He has hailed them three times. They have not acknowledged and they are not turning around. So should he fire? That’s what protocol would indicate…

By god, he is tired…

“Captain, we need an order.”

Military instinct kicks in.

“Fire a rocket. Shoot it down.”

* * *

 **1** missile is launched from it’s installation on the Golan Heights. It is, of course, Israeli - an ally of the United States.

The pilot immediately sees the rocket on his radar. He swears, begins maneuvering - his copilot grabs the radio and screams, _screams_ at them to stop firing, and hopes to god he’s transmitting. Of course, it won’t matter if they can’t evade…

The Duty Officer hears a garbled message on his radio. He orders it cleared up, and hears a voice a voice shouting in Russian. One of his men knows Russian - he freezes up, his face turning a deathly pale.

“Lieutenant?”

“Th… they’re a diplomatic envoy…”

The Duty Officer feels sick to his stomach as it sinks in. It’s not a bomber. It’s not a bomber at all. _My god, what have we done?_

The missile is state of the art. It is up against an airliner loaned to the Soviet government. The pilot is skilled, and doing all he can, but that simply isn’t enough.

The missiles makes contact with the left wing of the plane. The sky is suddenly, brilliantly lit by orange flame.

* * *

Fragments of the Soviet envoy’s plane plummet to earth - some over the Heights, some into the Sea of Galilee, and some simply disintegrate in midair. It’s final transmission is received not only in Israel, but in Jordan. Before long, they will hand it to the Soviet Embassy in that country.

There are **zero** survivors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh no


	6. Everybody Wants To Rule The World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Welcome to your life..._
> 
> A very special thanks to [realfakedoors](https://archiveofourown.org/users/realfakedoors/pseuds/realfakedoors) for proofreading this. Go check her fics out, you won't regret it!

**Everybody Wants To Rule The World  
**

These are the minutes of a meeting between children aged around five at the Beach City Library.

_These are the minutes of a meeting of President Reagan’s cabinet to discuss the ongoing crisis in Europe._

The meeting is called to order with the delivery of orange juice by the library staff. Mr. Dewey introduces Mr. Fryman to the other children; some already know him, but Ms. Miller is pleased to make his acquaintance. Once this has been done, they turn to the first item on the agenda - the absence of Mr. Fryman’s father and other adults in recent days.

_Mr. Bush addresses concerns brought up by Secretary of State Shultz regarding the shooting down of the Soviet diplomatic flight over Israel and the death of the envoy - a Mr. Gorbachev. It takes him three attempts to pronounce Mr. Gorbachev’s name correctly. Shultz advises that the Soviets are demanding their investigators be allowed access to the crash site, and that the officers in command of the Israeli crash site be indicted immediately._

Ms. J. Pizza indicates that Mr. Fryman’s father might have gone to fight the Soviets, although nobody quite knows what a Soviet is. They brainstorm ideas - it is known that a Soviet is coloured red, and therefore perhaps they are space aliens. Mr. Fryman is very excited at this prospect, but wonders if the Soviet aliens can perhaps be befriended.

_SECDEF Weinberger indicates that he has discussed options with previous Secretary of Defence, Mr. Rumsfeld. This leads to an argument about the competence and credibility of Mr. Rumsfeld, taking approximately five minutes. As Mr. Bush attempts to bring the conversation back to order, Mr. Weinberger makes a derogatory comment about Mr. Haig, the previous secretary of state. The ensuing argument again derails the meeting._

The room divides into two camps, roughly led by Ms. J. Pizza (evil aliens) and Mr. Dewey (cool aliens.). The arguments are well-rounded and presented in civil fashion, and eventually Ms. Miller gives the deciding vote in favour of the peace faction. This having being established, the meeting now turns to possible ways to coexist with the Soviets.

 _President Reagan categorically rules out any possibility of conceding to any Soviet demands. He, Mr. Bush and Mr. Weinberger are in agreement - there can be no walkdown. The communists must blink first. Mr. Shultz disagrees - he is adamant that an understanding must be reached,_ now _, before things get out of control. Mr. Weinberger insinuates that he is being cowardly._

At this stage in the meeting, Ms. K. Fryman agrees to share her remaining orange juice with Mr. Sour Cream, as he has spilled his.

_At this stage in the meeting, Mr. Shultz has to be physically prevented from throttling Mr. Weinberger._

After many ideas are thrown around, the children eventually decide that all they need to do is share the Earth with the Soviets; to live in peace with them, and to share their worldly possessions (except Mr. Fryman’s cool UFO toy - that’s _his._ ) Thus, as their parents arrive to pick them up, they depart harmoniously, their meeting very successful.

_Mr. Shultz and Mr. Weinberger swear at each other and both storm from the room, leaving the meeting without key members. Mr. Bush follows them to attempt to calm them down. With the meeting very much collapsed, President Reagan adjourns it, leaving with very little having actually been achieved._

* * *

In the back rooms of the state department, all of the President’s men are trying to contact General Secretary Chernenko. The back door _must_ be opened, as it always is in times of crisis - and initially it had been. How else was the conference organised? Backdoors, backdoors, backdoors.

Except Mr. Chernenko hasn’t replied to the backdoor communications network in three days.

* * *

Life is in many ways a great circle. Sunrise, sunset. Baby born, elder dies.

Ronaldo is given a lift home by Barb, who’s happy to drop him off - at least with the baby, Mrs. Fryman’s got an excuse for not being there for her son. Yet when she arrives at Beach Citywalk Fries, there’s no answer to her knocks.

The door breaks against her shoulder and they find Mrs. Fryman on the floor, breathing heavily, wincing, moaning. Her water’s broken. It’s time.

In Moscow, Andrei Gromyko arrives at the Kremlin, prepared to give a report to Chernenko about the crisis - it’s only one in the morning, but this is urgent. Now, Mr. Gromyko has been thinking and talking about the crisis, and he’s come to a few interesting conclusions. The Generals say they can reduce West Berlin in a matter of days, and can win so swift a conventional victory over NATO that they will be forced to the table.

Of course, Mr. Gromyko isn’t alone in thinking a war is winnable. Mr. Rumsfeld, to give an example, has telephoned Washington to give this advice repeatedly. But Mr. Gromyko, following the death of Mikhail Gorbachev in that unfortunate plane crash, is the heir apparent to Mr. Chernenko.

In Beach City, Mrs. Fryman arrives at the hospital. The delivery is swift and uncomplicated, and Barb is there to witness it. She knows it should be Don, but at least there was somebody.

The baby - Mrs. Fryman agrees to go with Don’s suggestion; ‘Peedee.’ Ronaldo is over the moon to see him for the first time. Barb holds him - Mrs. Fryman seems hesitant to allow it, but bites her tongue.

The sun rises.

On another end of the Earth, the General Secretary’s guards state that Mr. Chernenko is working late and is not to be disturbed, but stand aside when they realise they’re speaking to Mr. Gromyko. He passes them, binder under his arm. He opens the office door.

Mr. Chernenko lies face down at his desk. He doesn’t move.

He had a stroke two hours ago. He has been dead ever since.

The sun sets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of the cabinet members in the meeting were real members of Reagan's government in 1984. 'Rumsfeld' is, of course, Donald Rumsfeld, former Secretary of Defense, who would return to prominence during the George W. Bush administration. Mr. Haig is Alexander Haig (not to be confused with Douglas Haig.)
> 
> The dead envoy is, of course, Mikhail Gorbachev, who historically became General Secretary in 1985.
> 
> The backdoor between Washington and Moscow had been set up after the Cuban Missile Crisis for very understandable reasons.
> 
> Konstantin Chernenko, General Secretary of the Soviet Union, had been terminally ill when appointed to succeed Yuri Andropov (who had actually wanted Gorbachev to follow him.) In real life, he died in 1985. With Gorby dead, Andrei Gromyko seemed the most natural replacement. Gromyko was more of a hardliner than Gorby, so that doesn't particularly bode well.


	7. Two Tribes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just had to use this song. XD
> 
> A very special thanks to [realfakedoors](https://archiveofourown.org/users/realfakedoors/pseuds/realfakedoors) for proofreading this. Read her stuff!

**Two Tribes  
**

There are some days where you will always remember exactly where you were.

Doug’s at work, coming back from getting a coffee, just stepping out of the elevator (they call it the _lift_ here), and he hears the radio at one of the employee’s desk. It’s the BBC News, and the tone of the man on the other end is even and calm. There are many people crowded around it, and Doug elects to stop to listen.

Priyanka’s at home - they put her on maternity leave yesterday, so all she has to do is sit and watch TV, and it’s already driving her completely stir crazy. Whatever inane show is on TV suddenly vanishes, and there’s Dan Rather with a very ‘serious news story’ expression on his face. She turns it up - this could be important. It is - very much so.

Greg and Rose are in the van - it’s Seventies day on the local radio station, and really the Seventies weren’t that long ago but they’re both still a tad nostalgic, so why not? But that cuts out - _we interrupt this program for a special report from the White House Press Gallery_ \- and any sense of nostalgia suddenly, violently disappears.

Amethyst doesn’t pay it much attention. She’s hanging at Fish Stew, and Kofi and Nanafua have gone _dead silent,_ and so have everyone else, but she doesn’t get it. She just doesn’t get it. Not until she listens, and she hears words that Rose and Garnet and Pearl have spoken about so often.

Pearl isn’t there at all. She wanders a field overgrown by lustrous fruit, strewn with battleaxes and the dust of her comrades and her enemies,, looks over it all and thinks about times that were both better and worse.

Garnet has already seen it happen, and instead sits in the Temple and gazes out to  the future. More and more streams become dark and stained.

Fryman’s in Europe, in the back of a truck, when suddenly it changes course, and another soldier shouts - “The radio! Listen!” - and everything is silent as the creeping feeling of pure dread blankets them all, and they are reminded of their position as playing chips on the green table of the superpowers.

And what, you might ask, were they listening to?

Mr. Reagan is making an announcement.

_My fellow Americans._

_For the past weeks, this administration has tirelessly worked to ensure the preservation of peace in Europe and throughout the world. During that process, we have hoped to ignite a spirit of bilateral cooperation with our counterparts in the Soviet Union._

_It is with great regret that I inform you that the Soviet Union has not heeded our call. As of half an hour ago, the Soviet Army has launched an unprovoked assault against NATO forces in Central Germany._

_I cannot tell you how bitterly disappointed I feel in this outcome. Every step of the way, we offered the Soviets peace, peace with honour, peace with hope for our children. But as it has done every time, the communist world has shown that the only language it understands is force. Force against Hungary. Force against Czechoslovakia. Force against Afghanistan. And today, force against West Germany._

_Brute force can only be met with heroic resistance, and so the Western World must rise, arm in arm, to meet the challenge. Even as we speak, American, British, West German and allied forces are engaged in honourable struggle with the red juggernaut. Over the next few weeks, months, even years, our mettle will be tested._

_I am reminded of Winston Churchill, standing alone against Hitler’s armies, speaking to the British people to rally them. I remember his words, and I extend them to the criminals who sit in the Kremlin today; ‘Do your worst, and we will do our best!’_

_Thank you. God bless you all, and God bless the United States of America._

They will never forget. Nobody will. For that is where they were when the Third World War began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we go...


	8. Protect and Survive

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song title comes from the Dubliners, and I'd recommend you look it up. It's darkly hilarious.
> 
> A very special thanks to [realfakedoors](https://archiveofourown.org/users/realfakedoors/pseuds/realfakedoors) for proofreading this. Read her stuff!

**Protect and Survive  
**

_“Nuclear explosions are caused by weapons such as H-Bombs or Atom Bombs. They are like ordinary explosions only many times more powerful. They cause great heat and blast.”_

Doug can hear the television in the Cunningham’s living room from the small, windowless pantry in which they are now standing - normal programming has been suspended, and now they only play a public information film called ‘Protect and Survive’ - the same meaningless positivity is emblazoned on the booklet Mr. Cunningham is reading.

“They want us to lean doors against the wall.” He scratches his head. “Well, I could take one from the loft, I suppose… where the ‘ell am I supposed to get sandbags from?”

He shrugs.

“Don’t suppose it matters, does it Doug?” he says, “They won’t bother with us! They’ll ‘it London or Oxford, not ‘ere.”

“Well, your house _does_ back onto a nuclear bomber base…”

“Bah! Russia’s not got the bombs to deal with that. They’ll want to ‘it important things!”

Doug wonders if he should tell Mr. Cunningham that bomber bases are considered _very_ important. He decides not to.

“I could ask the missus to bring down the old suitcases,” Mr. Cunningham mutters, “Says here they might work - but Christ, where am I getting bloody _rope_ from?”

“There’s no public shelter, is there?” asks Doug.

Mr. Cunningham grins wryly.

“Nah,” he says, “Why spend the money on ‘em? We’ll make our own shelters! Save the government some money so they can use it to beat the Reds, eh?”

“But…”

“Chin up, Doug! Mrs. Thatcher wouldn’t just leave us all to die; that’s just not British!”

In a secret government bunker in Hertfordshire known as Northwood, there’s a little file with a little number - twenty million.

It is a conservative estimate.

* * *

_“The heat and blast is so severe that it can kill, and can destroy buildings for up to five miles from the explosion.”_

New Brunswick is southwest of New York City. It is northeast of Trenton, and a little further in that direction is Philadelphia. It’s on the I-95, Amtrak’s Northeast Corridor, the long urban jungle that makes up America’s eastern seaboard.

Priyanka can’t help but feel a target on her back.

She went for supplies yesterday - grabbed all that hadn’t been grabbed already… which is to say, not much. Today, the police have secured the stores; rationing is likely to be announced soon. With that, potentially, comes travel bans. She needs to decide, and she needs to decide quickly - stay, or go?

Perhaps the war won’t go nuclear - perhaps it’ll be fine.

But if it’s _not…_ she’s so close to New York City.

She feels the baby kick, and her decision is made. She begins to load up the car.

* * *

_“The most widespread danger from nuclear explosions is fallout. Fallout is dust that is sucked up from the ground by the explosion. Fallout can kill. Since it can be carried for great distances by the winds, it can eventually settle anywhere…”_

Who’d bomb Beach City?

That’s the question Amethyst keeps asking, and she never seems to get a satisfying answer. As she walks into town, she finds an atmosphere that has entirely changed. The stores are shuttered - windows are being boarded up, walls are shored up in any way they can be. Only Beach Citywalk Fries remains open, which surprises Amethyst - didn’t they literally _just_ have a baby? Like, three days ago, if that?

It’s almost not worth going, as Mrs. Fryman seems even crabbier than normal, but food is food. Although they say they’re going to ration potatoes, which would mean goodbye to them too. _Dang._

Beach City isn’t near anything, Amethyst reminds herself again - why would they hit it? What would they gain? She tells as much to Vidalia when she visits, but all she talks about is prepping the basement to shelter in. It’s _lame_.

So they’ll drop a few A-Bombs on New York, maybe? That’d suck, but they’re not going to use precious bombs on Beach City.

They are _safe_.

She wishes somebody would agree with her, so that she could at least feel confident in that.

_“...so no place in the United Kingdom is safer than any other.”_

* * *

“ _You are better off in your own home. Stay there._ ”

Fryman is weighed down by his helmet, his vest, his equipment, his rifle.

He sits in a box - an olive drab coffin - as it rumbles down the road. They call it an ‘Armoured Personnel Carrier’, but the sides are so thin that Fryman has to wonder what it’s supposed to be armoured against. They’re moving up to shore up the line - fifty miles west of the original border. Everywhere, the news is grim - the British and Belgians are falling back, artillery shells are falling on West Berlin, the US forces they’re moving to replace have collapsed.

Rumour runs rampant - ‘I hear they used nerve gas on the Limeys.’ ‘Heard they dropped a nuke on Brussels.’ ‘Ronnie’s had a stroke, they say.’

The same mantra repeats in Fryman’s head as he rolls towards the front, eating away at his frayed nerves. There is no sense of heroism, no grim determination, no resolve, just the same four words, over and over.

_I’m going to die._

_I’m going to die._

_ I’m going to die. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The PSA is real. Protect and Survive was produced by the British Government initally as a booklet, which later became a television production narrated by the late Patrick Allen. It was only to be broadcast if nuclear war was likely to occur within 72 hours - a timeframe restrictive enough to make the already dubiously effective advise almost entirely useless.
> 
> Mrs. Thatcher is of course Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher, the Conservative PM from 1979 to 1990. These are the only things that can be said about Thatcher that are not controversial.
> 
> Northwood really existed, and would have served as central command in Great Britain in the event of nuclear war.
> 
> The APC is what is known as an M113. They were Vietnam-vintage by 1984, and were poorly armoured, particularly against mines. It was protected against small arms and some anti-tank rockets, and as far as the Pentagon was concerned, that was good enough.


	9. You're In The Army Now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure things can only get better.
> 
> A very special thanks to [realfakedoors](https://archiveofourown.org/users/realfakedoors/pseuds/realfakedoors) for proofreading this. Read her stuff!

**You're In The Army Now**

Little toy soldiers arranged in little rows.

Lars can’t remember who got him the little plastic army men - maybe it was a birthday present, maybe it was from that _jerk_ Ronaldo - but he has them, and he’s in his room and there’s nothing else to do today because everything’s closed and mom and dad keep watching the TV, so he may as well play with them.

The green ones are the good guys, of course, and the grey ones are the bad guys. The grey guys have their own little captain figure, who his uncle jokingly called ‘Hitler’ - Lars doesn’t quite know what a Hitler is, but he can be the king of the bad guys. There’s a green captain figure too, with a bomber jacket and a swagger stick and four stars unevenly printed on his helmet. He looks like that guy from one of those old movies he’s not allowed to watch.

He remembers that growling deep voice - the line that had made mom turn off the TV when they’d caught it on the movie channel. Quietly, so that no-one will hear him, he whispers the line, picking up the green captain.

“I want you to remember that no bastard…” What is a bastard, anyway? Silly sounding word for his mom to have gotten all upset about. Oh wait, where was he.

“I want you to remember that no bastard ever won a war by dyin’ for his country. He won it by makin’ the other poor dumb bastard die for his country!”

He picks up a little plastic tank and rolls it along the floor.

“Bang! Bang! Bang!

_Bang!_

The ground shakes, and all sound dulls under a ringing. Fryman grabs his ear, pressing himself deeper into the foxhole. Next to him, the tank rolls back ever so slightly from the recoil of it’s massive gun. For a second, he can just about see the tiny form of an enemy tank on the opposing rise brew up, spewing flames into the night sky.

Not for the first time, he thanks god he’s not a tankman. He imagines burning in a sea of cordite and petrol - he can’t imagine many worse ways to go.

He can hear a muffled sound over the tinnitus. What _is_ it? It’s repetitive, sharp, directed-

He feels something hard on his shoulder and turns. It’s the sergeant, his face red, his voice course from shouting, and suddenly he can hear him.

“Private! Get your _fucking_ head out of your ass and _fire_!”

He forces himself up again, aiming his rifle towards the enemy. They’re so far away, they look like ants, and he’s thankful for that. At least then he can pretend they’re not human beings.

The tank rolls forward, gun traversing. It seems to be looking for a target, not that there’s any shortage of them. Before it fires, Fryman can see the barrel of another tank flash…

“Boom!”

Lars pulls the turret off the tank - it’s designed to be easy to take off and put back on, in case the discerning child needs a turret to be blown off. He throws the turret away and drops the hull down - it lands on top of a few rocket launcher guys and the one that’s always pointing (those army men are _so_ disappointing.)

Lars makes some more _bang bang bang_ noises, flicking away soldiers who are now ‘dead.’ The fall into faceless masses, little piles on the side of the battlefield where they’re not in the way.

He grabs a rifle soldier from the bad side and turns him towards one on the good side. He imagines that this soldier is small and fat and constantly bothering him with ghost stories and stuff about UFO and making him look like some kind of freak in front of the other kids.

He smiles bitterly.

“ _Bangbangbangbangbang!_ ”

The air is filled with the sickening stench of burning fuel and burning steel and burning flesh.

The tank, in military terms, has been knocked out - some bureaucrat at NATO HQ will mark it as ‘x1 M60A3 knocked out.’ In real terms, it’s been turned into a twisted hulk, the crew blown to pieces or burned alive, nameless statistics in an incomprehensibly massive war.

He feels something leaning on his shoulder. He turns, ready to shout - “Get your own foxhole!” - but the words catch in his mouth.

The other soldier isn’t trying to squat in his hole - he’s _dead._

There’s a tiny little red hole between his eyes, and absolutely nothing left of the back of his head and helmet. Red matter oozes down onto his shoulder, staining the camouflage jacket, and suddenly all of the bile in Fryman’s throat kicks up. He shoves the corpse away and doubles over, emptying his stomach into the dirt.

He hears artillery shells scream overhead as he gets back up, barrages of rockets lighting the night sky as they soar towards the Soviets. He can see them land behind the opposing ridge - bang, bang, bang, bang, ba-

_KA-BOOM._

Lars sweeps his arm over a mass of toy soldiers next to a truck. It’s an ammo truck, you see, and it’s just exploded violently. More soldiers onto the pile.

He grabs the enemy officer figure, and runs him over to a plastic rocket-launching truck, the little cartoonish missile moulded onto a ramp on the back.

_In Europe, an artillery barrage hits an ammo dump. It explodes with great force._

Fryman stares in horrified awe as he recovers from the enormous explosion. Across the way, he sees the angry glow, the growing cloud - the _mushroom cloud_.

It can’t be, can it? That was just a normal artillery barrage, it can’t be, they couldn’t have been that _stupid-_

_An American officer stares at the distant cloud, his face white._

_“Jesus Christ, they’ve done it. They’ve actually done it.”_

_He turns to an underling, his face turning from pale to red, his fists clenched._

_“I want a Pershing on their heads before they launch another one!_ ”

Lars plants the figure down next to the rocket launcher. He wriggles him in his hand, miming him shouting an order.

“Fire!”

Fryman is running back now, away from his foxhole towards company command. He doesn’t know why, and he knows he’ll get in trouble - his rifle is long gone - but he can’t stay, he just can’t stay. He has a son, for Christ’s sake. He just _can’t_ stay.

He hears tanks firing and men screaming all around - a jet fighter roars overhead and then-

Daylight at 11pm.

Fryman doesn’t see it, but he hears the screams, sees men falling to their knees, clutching their eyes. As the light slowly subsides, he forces himself to turn around.

Another mushroom cloud - much, much bigger than the first - in the direction of the Soviets. And there’s no question as to what this one is.

The firing stops. The tanks cease fire. There is dead silence.

He hears a whisper. “... _fuck._ ”

He thinks of Ronaldo. He thinks of his unborn child.

He thinks of the Russians, scrambling to launch their own rocket in return.

He bolts. He throws his helmet off, his flak vest off, anything that can weigh him down, and he _runs_. Nobody cares to stop him, everyone is either struck dumb or doing the same thing. He doesn’t have long - he has to get out, he _has to get out, **he has to get --**_

“Boom!”

Lars sweeps the field clean with his arm - green and grey, soldier and tank, all of it swept aside onto that little nameless pile. When he is done, nothing is left except the little green captain.

He picks him up, mimes him speaking.

“I win!”

He sighs, drops him, and rolls onto his back, bored once more and suddenly crushingly lonely.

In Central Germany, two mushroom clouds rise into the sky, and nothing aside remains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The movie Lars references is the 1970 film 'Patton.'
> 
> As far as tank battles went, the Soviets always had the numerical advantage. Their idea, as far as I can tell, was basically to sweep NATO forces off the field with massive armoured superiority and to win a swift victory before NATO industry and reinforcements could be brought to bear. I admit I don't know the deep details here.
> 
> 'M60A3' refers to the mark of tank - it's the third (A3) modification of the M60 tank. M60s were probably the most numerically important tank NATO had in the early 1980s, although newer M1 tanks were starting to appear at this time.
> 
> The Pershing II Missile was a very controversial intermediate-range ballistic missile deployed to Western Europe in the early 1980s. It met with protest not only from the Soviets but from the people of West Germany, who saw them as planting a big nuclear target in the backyard.


	10. The Man Who Sold The World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you're face to face  
> with the man who sold the world
> 
> A very special thanks to [realfakedoors](https://archiveofourown.org/users/realfakedoors/pseuds/realfakedoors) for proofreading this. Read her stuff!

**The Man Who Sold The World  
**

It is August the 14th, and the world has fallen into a sense of stunned silence.

The picture is still on the screen - the mushroom clouds, visible from the nearest city. The dead-eyed, pale-faced expression on Dan Rather’s face as he reads NATO’s casualty projections. The dire predictions - the genie is out of the bottle, they say. For first time since 1945, nuclear weapons have been used in anger.

Ten thousand American soldiers are believed to have been killed in an instant, and somewhere in that faceless number is Donald Fryman.

Barb goes down to give her condolences to Mrs. Fryman and Ronaldo but finds the mother to be… would _complacent_ be the right word? Indifferent? And Ronaldo, the poor boy, doesn’t even _know._ She hasn’t the stomach to tell him, and her heart sinks when she sees little Peedee, not even a month old. She leaves depressed, disheartened and more than a little angry.

But now is not the time to think of Europe. Now is the time to think of family.

For a moment she thinks of calling Clancy, but decides against it - if he’s not going to come down and enter Sadie’s world when it might be about to end, he doesn’t deserve to be there. So she prepares the basement for just the two of them, bringing down supplies and canned food, and hoping to god it all holds together when it happens.

 _If_ it happens, she reminds herself. There’s still hope. There has to be.

* * *

The telephone rings in the Oval Office.

“President Reagan.”

“ _Rose Quartz is at the door. She wants to speak to you._ ”

His lips thin. The country is in crisis - does he really have time? No, no, he has to be diplomatic, and maybe she has some kind of magical solution to the Soviet problem.

“Send her through.”

The door opens, and there she is in the late-afternoon light, her face set in a determined frown. It’s a stoicism he’s never seen from her, in the very few times they’ve met (which was twice - once to introduce herself after inauguration, and the other a misguided attempt to heal his gunshot wound that the Secret Service vetoed.) He gets the sense she doesn’t like him very much.

Gerald and Dick warned him about her - the latter was particularly scathing, but then again he wasn’t sure Dick liked _anybody_ \- and Carter mentioned her in his parting letter, but she’s never attempted to interfere with policy before. Is that about to change?

“Rose, sit down,” he offers, “Care for a jellybean?”

He raises the jar. Rose takes neither bean nor seat.

“This has to stop, Mr. President,” she says, “Too many humans have died.”

“Rose, please, I’m trying to solve this in the best possible manner, but you see the Russians aren’t giving us much choice.”

“Choice? You have a choice! You always have a choice!”

“Now, this is about American honour, we can’t be seen to blink-”

She doesn't even let him finish. “Is _American honour_ worth the world?!”

There is a long silence.

“We give the Russians Germany,” he explains evenly, “That’s, what? Fifty million people under the jackboot of communism? The same system that has murdered millions, and would murder millions more given the chance?”

Rose steps forward, her expression darkening. Her hands press down on the edge of the Resolute Desk, and she leans down over him.

“Unlike, say, Pinochet?”

“A necessary evil,” he replies, “A bulwark against communist expansion. I…”

He takes a deep breath and stands up, gazing out the window.

“You have a child on the way, don’t you?” he asked, “I can tell by the bump.”

“That’s why I’m here,” replies Rose, and there’s a sense of vulnerability in her words.

“Would you want that child to grow up in the Soviet system?” he asks, “In a world without hope? A world puppeted by the state, a world of bread lines and gulags and tanks crushing his or her freedoms? Do you want that child to live under Moscow’s jackboot?”

He steps forward, still gazing at the White House lawn.

“I am convinced, more and more every day, that the communist system is perhaps the purest evil that has ever befouled the Earth. It deprives man of liberty, of justice and of god. Ever time I see a little boy with the light of innocence in his eyes, or a woman about to experience the miracle of birth, I tell myself that I will _not_ , will _not_ allowed them to be crushed by that system.”

“So you’d rather kill them?” Her voice is harsh now, harsher than he’s ever known.

He turns around.

“No compromise,” he says, “Not even at the edge of the apocalypse. _They_ back down, or _they_ take responsibility for what happens next.”

He sits down again. Rose is silent, processing what he’s just said.

“For what it’s worth,” he adds, “Mr. Bush will be leaving Washington alone when it happens. I don’t intend to leave Washington when-”

“And you think that absolves you?!” Rose splutters, “You think _any_ of what you said makes you the good guy? You… you’re a _monster!_ And everything, _everything_ that happens next is _your fault!_ ”

She turns and storms out.

Ronald Reagan watches her leave. He sighs, takes a jellybean and gets back to work, confident in his own righteousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I don't like Ronald Reagan very much. :B


	11. Forever Young

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Hoping for the best, but expecting the worst_  
>  Are you gonna drop the bomb or not?
> 
>  
> 
> A very special thanks to [realfakedoors](https://archiveofourown.org/users/realfakedoors/pseuds/realfakedoors) for proofreading this. Read her stuff!

**Forever Young  
**

“If it happens,” says Rose, “We’re gathering everyone in the Temple. I think that can withstand a blast.”

It’s been a long, _long,_ night, and Greg is tired. Rose hasn’t stopped since getting back from her talks with Reagan and Gromyko - neither, it seems, went well, and she was on the verge of tears the whole time. And yet, she forces herself to act, to prepare everything - food, supplies, _everything_.

Amethyst’s room is _surprisingly_ well stocked for this.

Pearl doesn’t take it seriously - she doesn’t think much of human weapons of war. She helps, because this is important to Rose, but Greg can tell her heart isn’t in it. And this very well might be the last straw.

“Rose!” she exclaims, “We can’t let humans in the Temple, it’s… well, the _Temple!_ ”

“It won’t be _forever_ ,” replies Rose, “It’s just until the fallout clears.”

“Fallout? What even… you’re taking this far too seriously, Rose!” exclaims Pearl, “The humans will be _fine_ , and in any case, wouldn’t it be…”

“Pearl.” Garnet’s voice is harsh, firm. “We need to open the Temple.”

Pearl stammers for a moment, then shakes her head and storms over to the warp pad. No one needs to ask where she’s going - it’s that strawberry battlefield.

“Pearl, don’t-”

She’s gone.

Garnet steps up, heading to the warp pad.

“I’ll get her,” she says, “You need to stay here.”

“But Garnet…”

“You _need_ to stay here.”

Rose opens her mouth to protest again, but nothing comes out. She nods her head, and Garnet leaves.

“What did she mean by that?” asked Greg.

“Eh, who knows?” Amethyst shrugs, “Garnet can be…”

“I think she means,” replies Rose, “That it’s nearly time.”

* * *

The bombers are lined up at the airfield.

Doug can just about see their tall tails over the fence, waiting in their lines for the order to go. He’s been ordered to stay at the Cunningham’s for the foreseeable future - the trains are to be used only for the most necessary travel. Mr. Cunningham’s still optimistic - “Come on, Doug, where’s your Blitz Spirit, eh?” - but Doug? There are a lot of choice words he might use to describe himself at that moment, but _optimistic_ certainly isn’t one of them.

He wishes he’d never gotten on that plane. At least then, he could die with Priyanka.

* * *

Travelling away from New Jersey has been _hell_.

The I-95 is backed up all the way to New York City - she tried it on the first day and made it perhaps five miles. So she got off and travelled on the back roads, paying exuberant prices for less-than-honest gas stations willing to sell fuel under the table - rationing is now in full swing. Even that can only take her so far, and at last, the car sputters to a halt, somewhere on the Delmarva peninsula.

She can’t drive anymore, and there’s no one to give her a lift.

So she walks.

* * *

Lars’ parents are out - apparently they need to get ‘supplies’ for something or another, and he needs to stay in the basement ‘just in case.’ It’s ridiculous, really, and he’s _bored_.

So up he goes, up the steps and into the house. It’s quiet and empty without mom and dad - which means he can do what he wants. And he knows Buck lives somewhere around here, and maybe without his parents to embarrass him…

He walks out the front door - odd that they didn’t lock it, he thinks - and heads off to find Buck.

* * *

Greg paces - he can’t help it, he’s nervous. Garnet and Pearl still aren’t back, and he’s worried. Sure, he knows Pearl hates him, and if he’s honest, he understands why, but they need to be together, don’t they? So they can work out how to get everyone up here, so they can save as many people as possible…

He feels a hand on his shoulder, and smiles up at Rose’s face.

“It’s going to be _okay_ , Greg,” she says, but she sounds far from sure.

“I know, I know,” he replies, “I mean, they can’t _actually_ do it, right? They can’t… it’d be _insane…_ ”

“I don’t know, Greg, but you and me and the gems,” says Rose, “We’re gonna be fine - we have to, for…”

She suddenly stops.

“Uh, Rose?” asks Greg.

“Not now,” she whispers, “Please, not now…”

“Rose?” Greg repeats, his voice underlined with concern.

“Greg,” she says, her voice shaking, “It…”

Greg’s eyes widen as he realises exactly what is happening.

“ _It’s time._ ”

* * *

It is August the 15th, 1984. In Washington, it is 8.45 in the morning. It is 1.45 in the afternoon in London. It is 4.45 in the evening in Moscow.

In Oxford, not at all far from Doug, the local council is underground, sheltered to protect themselves should things go wrong. They will be the authority for Oxfordshire if London is… _cut off._

Right now, they’re discussing supply routes, projected casualties, and other grim things, but deep down they know that they won’t be ready. There is no way to be ready for this. So, they do what they can, and hope and pray that there’s a backdoor, that somebody, somewhere, is demonstrating something resembling common sense, that Washington and Moscow are banging something together behind the scenes and these discussions will remain just that.

There’s a little machine in the bunker that connects it to the main command centre at Northwood. Until now, it has been silent.

They’re discussing something about railways, now - repairing damaged lines, keeping the trains running; “We can maybe move some of the Class 37s down at-”

_BUZZT. BUZZT. BUZZT._

The machine comes to life, and all fall silent to listen to it. A few more buzzes, and then the message comes.

“ _ATTACK WARNING RED. ATTACK WARNING RED._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's the end of the world as we know it  
> and i feel fine


	12. 99 Red Balloons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _This is what we've waited for,_   
>  _This is it, boys, this is war._
> 
>  
> 
> Also, I do believe I've sort of spammed AO3 today and I apologise - it's just that a lot of things were ready to be posted in one day, and I failed a bit at spacing them out.
> 
> A very special thanks to [realfakedoors](https://archiveofourown.org/users/realfakedoors/pseuds/realfakedoors) for proofreading this. Read her stuff!

**99 Red Balloons  
**

Four minutes.

That is how long the British Government believes a ballistic missile will take to fly from the Soviet Union to Great Britain. That is how much warning the British public will have before the bombs start to fall.

Thus, the aptly-named ‘four minute warning.’

Essentially, Great Britain is America’s umbrella. It will send the United States reports of the missiles and bombers flying over the North Sea and the Arctic towards them, and then Britannia will be expected to die with some form of dignity.

It is 1.46 in the afternoon when the first siren starts to wail.

* * *

“Alarmist crap,” snorts Mr. Cunningham, turning off the TV, “If it ‘appens, it’ll be like the Blitz. Hell, we needn’t bother with this inner refuge business - just build a shelter out in the garden, like what they did in the War. They act like we’re gonna be annihilated - come on, England can take it!”

Doug doesn’t hate Mr. Cunningham, but he does wish he’d shut up about what England can take.

All he can do is stand in the garden, watching those distant airplane tails, waiting for them to move. Part of him just wishes it would end; the waiting is the worst part. Do we live? Do we die? Just let us know. Even now, when he’s come in to grab some water, all he can think about are those waiting bombers.

Mr. Cunningham can clearly see the worry on his face - he offers him a grin.

“Your family’ll be right, Doug,” he says, “You’ll be ‘ome yet, mark my…”

He trails off. In the distance, they can hear a peculiar sound.

_aaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrRRRRRRRRRRROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO_

Doug’s blood runs cold. For several seconds, he’s standing there in the Cunningham’s living room, unable to react, unable to move.

This is it. _This is it._

“Shit,” Mr. Cunningham says at last, “Alright, alright, inner refuge, inner refuge, where the ‘ell’s the missus…”

Doug runs - not into the pantry where the inner refuge is, but into the garden. As he does, he sees the first Vulcan scramble off the runway, roaring into the sky towards Moscow or Leningrad or some other place with millions of people. Then there’s another, and another…

He’s one thousand yards from a nuclear bomber base.

There is no point in taking shelter.

“Doug! Doug, get in ‘ere or I’m locking the door!”

Doug ignores Mr. Cunningham, falling onto his back and gazing up at the summer sky. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out his wallet, opening it to see the picture of he and his wife on their wedding day. He closes his eyes and sighs - he’ll never know his child, he realises. He’ll never know if his child will even get to live.

“Priyanka,” he whispers, “Please, be safe.”

He keeps his eyes closed. He has no interest in seeing the end - he can already hear it in the sirens and the roars of the departing bombers.

In the event, the missile doesn’t hit the base square on - it lands in the five hundred yards between the base and the Cunningham house. As the result, the little residence isn’t so much destroyed as it is atomised. Doug, the Cunninghams, all the personnel on the base and the people of the little housing district, they don’t feel a thing - one moment they’re there, the next, there’s just tiny particles of ash and evaporating water.

What’s left of Doug Maheswaran will flutter peacefully down onto what’s left of Gloucestershire later tonight.

* * *

Across America, a carefully prepared apparatus of mass destruction springs to life.

In Washington, President Reagan gives the order and enters the codes - he has no plans to leave the White House, so Vice-President Bush evacuates to the bunker at Raven Rock, Pennsylvania in his stead. He receives one last phone call from Mrs. Thatcher, which is cut off halfway through - the storm is coming closer.

Across the midwest, hidden among farms and prairies in Nebraska and Kansas, the missile silos open. In Ohio and Indiana, and on the other side of the nation in California, the bombers scramble from their airbases, ready to soar over the Arctic Circle and the Pacific to Russia.

At NORAD, the generals watch on the proverbial ‘Big Board’ as lights go out across Europe - London, Paris, Bonn, Rome…

It is what they’ve waited for for thirty years - nuclear war is in full swing.

* * *

Garnet is walking with Pearl towards the warp pad when they see it.

It starts as a blinding flash in the direction of Stockholm, that soon fades into a towering mushroom cloud. The streams in Garnet’s future vision suddenly merge into fewer and fewer until only one remains, and she freezes in place.

“Garnet?” asks Pearl, “What… what’s…”

She doesn’t hesitate. She grabs Pearl and bolts for the warp pad as fast as she can.

Two miles from the Strawberry Battlefield is a small military airfield. The Soviets believe it can be used to launch bombers - as a result, they cannot leave it be.

Garnet reaches the warp pad, planting Pearl down on it. She prepares to activate it.

She is half a second too late.

The Soviet rocket detonates about five hundred metres above the ground - this is what is known as an _airburst_.

The light appears first, and with it the instant release of invisible radiation. It sweeps over the battlefield before anything else, and deep within Garnet and Pearl, they feel something _wrong_.

For a moment, Garnet has time to guess what it is - some kind of corruption, created not my Diamond powers but by humanity’s destructive ingenuity. For radiation mutates, and it now becomes clear that it affects gems as well as humans. She has to warp, before-

The shockwave slams through the field, poofing both their forms and sending their gems flying away into a cloud of nuclear dust - intact, but doused with the poison of the atom.

Like a broom, World War Three continues to sweep Europe away - and that broom is crossing the Atlantic Ocean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't promise this is gonna be easy reading but I can promise at least some people are gonna live.


	13. The End Of The World As We Know It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's no going back now.
> 
> A very special thanks to [realfakedoors](https://archiveofourown.org/users/realfakedoors/pseuds/realfakedoors) for proofreading this. Read her stuff!

**The End Of The World As We Know It  
**

They’re in Amethyst’s room now - Rose, Greg and Amethyst - and Rose is suddenly struck with a pang in the heart of her gem. She doesn’t know how, but she _knows_ something terrible has happened.

“Rose?” Greg must have noticed her expression change.

“Garnet and Pearl,” Rose winces through the pain of her labour, “Something’s happened…”

“They’re not-” Amethyst’s face pales.

“No, they’re…” Rose winces. “I think they’re… c… cor…”

She turns to Amethyst, clutching her hand.

“Amethyst,” she says, “I need you to listen to me very carefully…”

* * *

Far out to sea, a Soviet nuclear submarine surfaces. Her captain stands in his command centre, caked in sweat, breathing stale air. He’s shaking - orders have just come in from Moscow to launch, and now they’ve gone silent completely. God, his wife’s in Moscow - could it be…

“Captain, we need orders!”

His target is simple - the city of Crossroads. According to intelligence, it’s got a small command and training base for the Marine Corps. It also has ‘notable civilian infrastructure’ - specifically, a hospital, a small airstrip and a railway station. The blast will hit many small towns surrounding Crossroads, but that’s considered acceptable.

But is it acceptable? Is it?

God damn it, would anybody ever know if he _didn’t_ launch?

“Captain, please!”

No. There’s no point in morality anymore. It’s the end of the world. He raises a shaking hand and turns the key in front of him, before pressing the button. The boat shakes as the missile is launched, and he feels sick, sicker than he ever has before.

“Well, that’s it, then.” The Political Officer’s voice is hollow.

The captain reaches into his jacket and pulls out his service pistol.

“Gentlemen,” he says, “It’s been a privilege.”

He has no intent of living to see the ruins.

* * *

Priyanka is passing a small beach town - Charm City, although it hardly warrants the name - when the sirens start to screech.

At first she stands in the middle of the road - frozen, dumbstruck, just as the few others she can see. The sound is uniquely paralysing; what it represents is terrifying beyond comprehension. It is a single moment of utter panic that can only be expressed through total, numb shock.

Then there’s a crash - a car rear ends another somewhere behind her - and she can think again.

There’s no time for fear, no time for caution, no time to think of the ramifications - she _must_ find shelter.

“Hey! In here!”

She turns to her left. There’s a man hanging out the door of a church, waving his arms wildly.

“Into the basement - come on, quickly!”

She can see nowhere else to run, so there she goes.

* * *

Lars is out on the street, looking for Buck’s house, when he hears the strange sound.

_aaaarrrrooOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO_

He knows what this is - vaguely. He’s heard it in movies and in the occasional drill, but this time he knows it’s for real. The bombs are coming. He doesn’t quite know what kind of bombs they are, but he’s heard his parents talk about them, whispering in quiet fear about what will happen when they drop.

And here he is, out in the open.

“Kid!”

He’s suddenly hoisted up. It’s the mail lady - she looks frantic as she begins to run towards the front door of a nearby house.

Lars swallowed. “M-mom?”

“We’ll find ‘em when it’s over, but we gotta get you to shelter! Come on!”

She barrels through her house and down the stairs, into a small basement. It’s pretty cramped - there’s tins of soup and beans and vegetables, a few first aid kits, a little collapsible cot and a sleeping bag. The mail lady plants him on the floor and races back upstairs.

“Hey.”

Lars turns. There’s a girl next to him - he thinks he’s seen her before, now and again.

“I’m Sadie,” she says kindly, “Do you know what’s goin’ on?”

Lars shakes his head.

“Me neither,” replies Sadie, “But mom’s gonna keep us safe, ‘kay?”

She offers her hand.

“I’ll hold your hand if you get scared.”

Slowly, Lars takes the offered hand.

* * *

Mrs. Fryman is outside when the siren wails. Her blood runs cold, her key still in the car door - she’s just come back from a fruitless trip to the grocery store for supplies. Dear god, she thought she had time, she thought she had _time_.

She has to get out - she has to get away from people, into the country where they won’t bomb. She barrels into the car, jams her key in the ignition and floors it, thundering away, nearly running over Kofi in the process.

“Hey!” he shouts, “ _Hey!_ ”

He glances back to Beach Citywalk Fries, and his jaw drops - he can see Ronaldo’s little head behind the counter, poking up to see what’s happening.

“Oh, you _didn’t_ …” the whisper is bitter, disgusted.

His own shelter can wait - he runs for the fry shop, determined to get the two Fryman boys. If their mother won’t help them, then god damn it, _he will_.

* * *

Vidalia’s piled her own family into the basement and has just run out to pick up a few more cans of supply when the first bomb hits.

Thankfully, it’s nowhere near them - by the looks of it, it’s Baltimore - but the rising mushroom cloud in the distance turns her blood to ice. It’s a clear, unmistakable sign - _time is up_.

She snatches the cans and races inside, hoping, _praying_ that she isn’t too late…

* * *

There’s a flash due east of Air Force One, and Mr. Bush covers his eyes. When he opens them, there’s nothing but another cloud - one of three over what was once Washington DC; the Soviets are nothing if not thorough.

The General across from him reads out another confirmed target - another hit on New York. The Big Apple has taken four so far, and it’s hard to imagine there’s anything left to flatten.

You see, a single bomb is not enough. The big centres of command, control and population must be _erased_ so that they can never be used again. So that the enemy is eternally crippled. So that _every last person_ in these big cities is destroyed.

Such is the conceit of MAD - that it be _unthinkable._

And yet it happens.


	14. Two Suns in the Sunset

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very special thanks to [realfakedoors](https://archiveofourown.org/users/realfakedoors/pseuds/realfakedoors) for proofreading this. Read her stuff!

**Two Suns in the Sunset  
**

“Amethyst,” says Rose, and her voice is strained. Amethyst clutches her hand and tries to pretend she’s in control of her emotions - she knows Rose can see right through her, but she won’t cry. She _won’t_ cry.

“When the baby comes into this world,” Rose explains, “You… you’re going to be the only one who can teach them how to be a gem.”

“What? But… but Garnet and Pearl! They’ll be back soon, right?” Amethyst’s voice is shaking, and she swallows and tries to control it. “They’ll be back! It… it can’t just…”

“I’m sorry,” says Greg, “But if they’re not back now… god, it’d already be happening in Europe… that’s where the battlefield is, right?”

“They fought a war for five thousand years!” exclaims Amethyst, “Like a _nuke’s_ gonna finish ‘em! I… they can’t be _gone_ , Rose! I…”

Her voice breaks again, and this time she doesn't try to strengthen it.

“...I can’t do this alone.”

“Amethyst.” Rose smiles through the pain and squeezes her hand, “Don’t you see? You’ll _never_ be alone.”

It is 9.10am. Rose’s gem is starting to glow.

“As long as they’re here,” she explains, “As… as long as they _love_ you, that’s… that’s going to be _me_. That’s me loving you, being _proud_ of you… because I _know_ you can do this.”

“I… I can’t!” exclaims Amethyst, “I’m overcooked, I’m a runt, I can’t… I can’t do what you and Pearl and Garnet can do, I just…”

It is 9.11am. The glowing intensifies.

Rose weakly raises her hand to Amethyst’s cheek.

“You _can_ ,” she replies, “I know you can. You can do it better… than I ever could.”

Amethyst breaks, tears running down her cheeks as she tightens her hold on Rose’s hand. She doesn’t want to let get. She doesn’t want her to go. She doesn’t want this…

Rose turns to Greg and smiles.

“Rose.” Greg’s voice is just as broken as Amethyst’s.

“I love you, Greg,” she replies, “Never, _never_ forget that.”

Greg smiles, sad and crooked. “I promise.”

Rose lays back and smiles, a melancholy gesture. She closes her eyes.

“Welcome to the world,” she whispers.

It is 9.12am on August 15th, 1984.

About five hundred feet above and two hundred metres northwest of Crossroads General Hospital, a submarine-launched missile detonates.

* * *

Kofi doesn’t see the blast, just the light. He’s just passed Ronaldo and Peedee through to Nanafua, and has just enough time to dive into the basement and slam the door shut. He trips on the way down - he feels something in his leg _snap_ , and the pain is incredible.

A second after he hits the ground, he hears the deafening thunder, like an express freight train, and hears the building above collapse. He holds his hands over his head, eyes forced shut. He wills the roof - _don’t fall in, don’t fall in, don’t fall in…_

* * *

Mrs. Fryman does see the blast, but only vaguely. It’s covered by the ridge the road hugs, and she thinks for a moment that all is okay, that she’s been sheltered. The car sputters to a halt, the engine cutting out.

She has three seconds of reprieve. Then comes the shockwave, and the car twists like a crumpled can as it is blasted into the sea.

* * *

Buck Dewey does see the blast.

He doesn’t see his father tug him through the doors of the shelter, but he feels the tug and hears the slam of the door. He feels the building shudder as the shockwave hits the mayor’s residence, feels his dad hold him close, feels warm tears and deep fear in his stomach as the world shakes.

But he doesn't see it.

He doesn't see anything, and he never will again.

* * *

Barb’s up in the house when the world lights up.

She has no time to get to the basement, and she knows the wooden house can't stand the shockwave, so down she goes onto her face. Standard nuclear drill; kiss the ground and hope to die with dignity.

The blast deafens her. Off flies the furniture. Off flies the roof. Off fly the walls.

Off flies the world.

* * *

Dante and Martha are at the grocery store when the blast happens. They don’t see it through the brick and mortar of the building, but they feel the rumbling and go to ground.

The blastwave hits and everything is dust and wind, and Martha reaches out for Dante and she can’t find him, and she fears she’ll be blown away.

She never sees the twisted bus blown in from the road. She never feels it either, going straight into blissful, peaceful darkness.

Not even a mile away, their son huddles in an unfamiliar basement, holding tight to an unfamiliar girl as the world threatens to shake itself apart, and for the first time, he finds himself crying unashamedly.

* * *

It's like a bulldozer, and few people in the open survive.

The wave tears through wooden buildings like tissue paper, smashing them into splinters. Brick fares little better. Windows shatter, power lines fly away, and the world left behind is like the moon. The modern world is there, and then it is gone.

Crossroads has been erased, and Beach City has been nigh destroyed.

Barb forces herself to her feet. The house is gone, only rubble remaining, and the very sky is on fire. She coughs from the thick red smoke and ash. She can see someone on the street, skin burnt and sagging off, eyes melted, staggering in vain hope for help of shelter. She tries to wave to them - she doesn't know why.

No hand comes up. She looks down and sees the stump under her left shoulder.

Bill Dewey holds his crying son, looking into his eyes - they’re red and they will not focus, and he keeps saying he can’t see. The air is dense and stale, and he doesn’t dare go outside - but how will he treat his son? Can he? Can anyone.

He grabs the medical kit with a shaking hand and immediately drops it. Bandages roll onto the floor.

Kofi lies at the bottom of his basement stairs, and he’s crying, because damn it, the roof _held_ , and for the moment that’s all that matters. He has his family, the Fryman boys are safe, and the future is uncertain and everything’s gone, but it doesn’t matter because they’re _alive._

In a few hours, the first responders will arrive - police and firemen and National Guard spirited away to shelter by the local government, sent back out into the world to pick up the pieces. Many fire trucks go to Baltimore, where their crews will literally axphilate where they stand trying to put out the fires.

A police officer finds the unconscious body of Martha Barriga beside the road, battered and bruised, and take her to triage. When she wakes, she will not recall her name or any of the details of her life - all erased with the old world. There is no sign of Dante. Lars’ parents will not be coming for him.

The Temple is a mess, warped and twisted but still vaguely recognisable. Inside Amethyst’s room, Greg nurses a burn from the glow of a gem, and he’s crying, but he smiles down at the tiny form in his arm. And Amethyst cries too, from sorrow and fear but also from a strange sense of wonder, and holds the tiny baby’s arms.

Around the world, millions and millions and millions have been extinguished. But right here, in this moment, in this tiny outpost in the horror and despair, a life begins.

“Nice to meet you, Steven,” Amethyst says, and despite the sob that bursts out, she smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus, there is peace.


	15. Wish You Were Here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very special thanks to [realfakedoors](https://archiveofourown.org/users/realfakedoors/pseuds/realfakedoors) for proofreading this. Read her stuff!

**Wish You Were Here  
**

It all ends in deafening silence.

The air smells of death, and the blue sky is blotted by clouds of red ash - ash that was once cities. The remains of the old world choke the atmosphere from Vladivostok to Berlin to San Diego.

And what of those who started it? Mr. Gromyko is gone, and so is Mr. Reagan and Mrs. Thatcher and Mr. Honecker and all of those old cold warriors, convinced of their own righteousness as they cast into the fire. And the people who they promised to protect? For the most part, dead, or dying, or languishing in the wastes. The history books are already being written in the minds of the suffering and grieving survivors - they will _not_ be kind.

Many are still doomed. The fallout is only just beginning to drop. Cancer rates will rise, and there’s scarce few left to treat them. Healthcare has collapsed. Infrastructure has collapsed. The modern world has collapsed.

But for those in their shelters, opening their eyes and uncupping their ears and realising that they are _alive_ , these things are irrelevant. Right now, in this moment, they’re okay. They’re going to _live._

* * *

It is three days before Greg and Amethyst emerge from the Temple. They find a Beach City that has been almost erased, and Greg’s heart sinks when he remembers their plan to help the people - a plan completely forgotten in the chaos of childbirth.

His _son_. He holds him in his arms, and everytime he looks at him he’s overwhelmed all over again. How, on the worst day in human history, could such a miracle occur? Was it fair? Was it right? He doesn’t care. This is is his boy; his world hasn’t been destroyed, because he holds it in his hands.

Pearl and Garnet still aren’t back, and Amethyst is starting to accept that they never will return. It’s just her now, and she’s terrified beyond all reason, but Rose left her Steven, and she won’t let her down.

They find who didn’t make it. They corpses still being removed from flattened houses, twisted and battered beyond recognition. They see Barb with no arm, and little Buck with bandaged eyes. They see Vidalia, who waves to them, and points and mines at her ruined house and her children because she’s still in shock and can’t form words. Yellowtail coughs, the fluid red, and Greg can’t help but feel he looks thin.

Yet, in all the flames and wreckage and sorrow, they see the survivors. Jenny and Sour Cream talking to Buck, not caring for his wound because he’s their friend and they love him anyway. Kofi sits outside his flattened restaurant with Ronaldo, holding baby Peedee, and he tells them he’ll look after them, that they’ll be okay. Sadie sits on the curb with Lars and talks about her life, and Greg can tell the boy’s interested despite his deliberately affixed bored expression.

“This is his world, y’know,” says Amethyst, “He’s never gonna know what it was like before.”

“Nah,” nods Greg.

He looked down at his baby again.

“All we can do is make it the best world we can for him,” he says.

Amethyst nods.

“I hear that,” she says, reaching for Steven, “Come here, kiddo - Aunt Ames’ got ya…”

* * *

Ruby awakes in desolation. She finds nothing left.

Slowly, she pulls herself to her feet. The strawberries are gone - so are the ancient weapons. The world is as flat as the moon, and the sky is choked in ash. The warp pad has been torn away, with only a slight discolouration in the blackened earth revealing where it once had been.

“S… Sapphire?”

She raises a hand to her head. It feels _wrong_.

She looks at her palm to find it’s not there. Instead, her forearm is long and warped, ending in an oozing sucker, perhaps like the mouth of an octopus. Her eyes widen - _corruption_. But since when did it look like this, and why wasn’t the rest of her-

There’s a shrill croak, long and squeaky. Ruby turns.

A long, white, bird-like creature with peach-coloured fur atop her head pokes at the dirt with her beak, screeching mournfully as she searches for any sign of life in the wasteland. She’s covered in scales instead of fur, and there are sickly green patches all over her body. She has wings, but they’re too small to fly - her feet are webbed. When she moved her head up, Ruby finds herself looking into brilliant blue eyes, a smooth white gem above them.

“ _Pearl._ ” Ruby’s voice cracks.

Pearl gives no sign of recognising either the red gem or her own name, and returns to pecking the ground. Ruby starts to look around, terror running through her. _Not Sapphire, please, not Sapphire…_

She hears tiny footsteps, and her heart stops.

Ambling up to her is a blue, furry creature, perhaps like a fox, but with a razor-sharp spike on the tip of her tail. Her single eye can just about be seen through tuffs of white fuzz that crown her head - and yet she has no mouth, just a smooth, spherical surface around her eye. She’s stumbling, limping, and she looks so lost and confused.

Ruby falls to her knees, and Sapphire walks up to her. In her eye, there is no sign of any recognition, any understanding of who this little red gem is, or why she is breaking into heavy sobs as she pulls the blue animal closer.

“ _Sapphire_ ,” she wheezes, chest heaving, “It should’ve been me. _It should’ve been me_.”

She buries her head in Sapphire’s fur, weeping into the soft pelt.

Slowly and gently, Sapphire nuzzles Ruby’s shoulder. She doesn’t understand why this red person is so sad, or who she is, or _what_ she is - but she feels safe in her presence.

In this scary world, that’s all that matters.

* * *

It is December 15 1984 when Priyanka’s daughter finally arrives.

She’s still in Charm City, under a ruined church, and the people with her help deliver Connie in any way they can. And it _is_ Connie - Priyanka’s intuition was right the whole time.

It is ten days until Christmas, and the snow falls gently outside - or maybe it’s still ash. Priyanka sits by a ruined wall in the broken building, slowly rocking her baby back and forth. She’s calm, peaceful, and she seems to try to catch the snow in her tiny hands.

Something within her feels Doug, sitting next to her, talking to his daughter in some sort of goofy baby talk that Priyanka was never good at, being here with her in the moment. And though she cannot see him, hear him or feel him, part of her truly believes he’s there.

The old world is over. There has been nothing from the US Government, or Russia, or Europe - the slate is clean. And for Connie’s sake, and for the sake of all the other children born since the war, Priyanka is determined to make the new world as good as it can possibly be.

It’s the least they can do for destroying it in the first place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _How I wish, how I wish you were here,  
>  We're just two lost souls  
> Swimming in a fish bowl  
> Year after year,  
> Running over the same old ground  
> And how we found  
> The same old fears,  
> Wish you were here._


	16. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very special thanks to [realfakedoors](https://archiveofourown.org/users/realfakedoors/pseuds/realfakedoors) for proofreading this. Read her stuff!

**Epilogue**

Far out to sea, there is a place called the Galaxy Warp. It’s been broken and unused for millennia, known only by the Crystal Gems - and with the small matter of the end of civilisation, they aren’t too focused on that.

It lies alone in the mid-Atlantic until eventually, someone encounters it.

It is the USS _Iowa_ , the largest ship of the gutted US Navy, out of contact with command and sailing for home, whatever remains of it. It has been a long voyage, fraught with dangers, fears of Soviet submarines and dwindling supplies - perhaps this strange construction might have something that can help them.

No dice. The landing party finds only an old gem structure, useless to them in every way. But as they prepare to return to their battleship, disappointed and gutted, a petty officer finds something lying on the ground.

It is a mirror, small, ornate, and when she turns it over she finds a lapis lazuli stone affixed to the back.

She shrugs. It’s probably not important, but she’ll take it with her anyway. Perhaps someone, somewhere will want it, if they ever make it home.

They do make it home, and somebody does want it. It is sent in a box to Raven Rock, Philadelphia - the new seat of government of the United States.

* * *

Communication is disrupted all over the nation. Beach City hears nothing from Raven Rock for months, and eventually they give up hope. It’s time to focus on helping themselves.

It’s lean to begin with - food supplies must be rationed severely. Dewey just about has a nervous breakdown, especially when the National Guard leave to find ‘continuity of government.’ But they make it work. Gardens become farms. Shops become storehouses. Money ceases to have meaning - there’s no point in bartering when everyone is fighting for the same goal of survival.

But monsters come from the blasted wilderness - corrupted gems, further warped by the radiation of the bombs. There is now just one person who can defend the town.

Amethyst isn’t ready, but nobody possibly could be. She promises to do what she can. She fights the monsters, bubbles them, constantly wishes Garnet, Pearl and Rose were here to help. Then she comes home, and helps Greg with Steven. The kid slowly grows, and eventually he starts to learn to speak.

He looks at her one day and gurgles a word; ‘mama.’

Amethyst is basically inconsolable for days, because it’s _not fair_. Rose should be the one to get that - or at very least, Pearl and Garnet. They should be able to see this kid, and he them, instead of just her, on her own, small and inadequate, and it’s _just not fair._

But this is a new world, and ‘fair’ doesn’t matter.

* * *

Mr. Bush doesn’t last long. The surviving members of the cabinet don’t appreciate his failure to expand, to reclaim the old United States, and he’s told to resign around late 1986. His replacement, having wormed his way to Raven Rock through an ‘advisory position’ at the White House, is Mr. Donald Rumsfeld.

A new United States Army marches out, first to the ruins of Philadelphia, and then beyond. It’s slow going, largely due to the need to ‘pacify’ communities that have become used to being independent. But by god, he will drag them kicking and screaming into his new Union. He will do whatever it takes to rebuild the nation of Washington, Lincoln and Reagan. Forced labour, detention without trial, burning villages - nothing is too far to achieve this goal.

The Remnant expands across the north east over the next fourteen years. Some go quietly. Some don’t. All fall.

Mr. Rumsfeld eventually resigns, confident in his own success. His successor is a man named George Washington Thomas (born George Winston Thomas, but that wasn’t patriotic enough for him). Thomas looks south, towards the old states of Delaware, Maryland and Virginia. It’s time to bring them into the fold.

* * *

Amethyst looks into the distance, at the burning town just over the horizon. She shakes her head, but can’t bring herself to care too much - she’s seen enough burning to last a human lifetime.

She’s about to turn away, to walk back to the Temple, when she sees a small figure sprinting through the long grass, away from the fire but in no particular direction. Amethyst stares for a moment. She should leave her, get home, get back to Steven. She should be a gruff apocalypse maiden, a lone wanderer, distant from all.

But damn it, she loves kids.

“Hey, is everything okay there, kid?”

She steps over, and the kid skids to a halt in front of her. She looks distraught, dark hair dishevelled, glasses broken, and she’s shaking and tearing up. She seems to be about Steven’s age, although slightly taller.

Amethyst puts a hand on her shoulder as she tries to spit out words, clearly incredibly worked up. Amethyst wonders what she’s seen.

“Hey, kid, c’mon, you’re safe now,” she says, “Nothin’s gonna hurt you…”

“They… they took _mom!_ I… I…”

She breaks down again, and Amethyst brings her into a hug. She cries into her shoulder for some time, but eventually the sobs slow down.

“Hey, we’ll sort it out,” she says, “I can take you somewhere safe for now. What’s your name?”

The kid sniffles a little, then replies.

“Connie,” she says, “My name’s Connie.”

Amethyst smiles.

“Nice to meet ya, Connie…”

**[The End?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KodNFsP6r88) **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _We'll meet again,  
>  Don't know where,  
> Don't know when,  
> But I know we'll meet again,  
> Some sunny day..._
> 
> Well, that's it for One Summer. Thank you all for coming with me on this ride. I suppose now I should say what inspired this.
> 
> I've always been interested in the alternate history genre (even if I tried reading Harry Turtledove and I didn't like his books.) The specific story that inspired this is on alternatehistory.com - I don't know if you can see it without a login - and is called 'Protect and Survive.' It's about Northern England, specifically around Newcastle, in a world where the Cold War goes hot in 1984, and it's deeply, deeply frightening. Ever since reading that, I've been tempted to do one of my own - the urge was only increased by exposure to films like Dr. Strangelove and The Day After and Threads (the British production that makes The Day After feel like a feelgood comedy).
> 
> Furthermore, it increasingly feels like nuclear war is topical again. Just this month, both the US and Russia withdrew from the Intermediate-Range Nuclear Forces Treaty, which to someone who's studied the Cold War is absolutely horrifying. I feel like if I can contribute, even in such an incredibly small way, to the dialogue against nuclear weapons - well, you do what you can, you know?
> 
> Will I make a sequel to this? I'm certainly thinking about it, and perhaps one day I will, but that's in the future for the moment. For now, thank you all for reading this story. I really hope you enjoyed it. Particular thanks to realfakedoors for proofreading this.
> 
> I'll see you next time - hopefully in a happier project. XP


End file.
